Catwalk
by Pipsqueak
Summary: The infamous shipyard scene from TPoC from QSM Darien's POV


Catwalk Author: Pipsqueak119 Rating: R Spoilers: TPoC Disclaimer: The Invisible Man belongs to Stu Segall and SciFi. 'nuff said. Summary: The infamous shipyard scene from QSM Darien's POV  
  
A/N: My answer to a TPoC missing scene challenge. It's smut as only I can write it -- completely over intellectualized. This may or may not be followed up by a companion piece detailing Claire's POV. I don't really have the time but Claire's yelling something about wanting equal billing.  
  
He woke to total blackness, his physical environment a mirror of his mental one. Instincts, urges swirled around the edges of his consciousness, the hum of hushed voices whispering beneath them. He kicked the back doors of the van open and slid out into the harsh light. One thought became blindingly clear.  
  
The girl. The girrrl ... thegirlthegirlthegirl. She was still here, somewhere. He could hear her. Hell, he could smell her. She'd been in the van with him when he'd first woken up. He'd thought they'd had an unspoken agreement to kill the old man together, but after the brief struggle, he'd woken up alone.  
  
She'd left him. Just like all the others. But she was still here, somewhere. He'd find her and make her pay. Just like he would with all the others. But first, there was the girl.  
  
He pushed himself away from the van with a growl. He scanned the area, looking for any sign of where she could be hiding. He heard her again. She wasn't hiding; she was humming. Her voice floated down to him like some twisted angelic choir.  
  
Up. She was up. The old man too. So she hadn't killed without him, after all. She and the old man were on the catwalk. Well, then that's where he needed to be. He spied the rusty staircase. Yes, he needed to be up, but quietly, stealthily. Quicksilvering, he mounted the stairs and began his ascent into madness.  
  
The old man was pulling the girl back onto the catwalk and yelling at her. He stopped and watched as the old man hit her. That was wrong. No one was going to hit the girl unless it was him. "I guess chivalry really is dead," he quipped as he went after the old man. There was only one punishment for trying to steal his prey, and he meted it out efficiently, watching as the old man fell to earth with a very satisfying thud.  
  
He stood, contemplating the end of one chase and the beginning of another. He heard soft laughter over his shoulder -- the girl. This was new. No screaming, no pleading, just ... laughing? He was intrigued.  
  
"What the hell are you laughing at?" He turned to face the girl.  
  
"You're mad." She stood there, looking at him, still giggling. Unbidden, a quote floated to the surface of his boiling mind: 'The funniest joke in the world is to tell the truth.' Well, two could play that game.  
  
"You're not so stable yourself there, sister." He took a menacing step closer. If she wanted to die laughing, who was he to say no?  
  
"I know. And I know I should be afraid of you, but I'm not."  
  
That statement gave him pause ... and another, unfamiliar emotion. He stared at her for a moment, trying to put a name to what was unnamable. Ah, there it was -- joy. He hadn't experienced this before. No, it had always been the darker emotions that were unleashed. But now, standing before the girl, he felt joy. She wasn't afraid of him. She wasn't leaving him. And something in her eyes said she might even understand some of him. He wanted more.  
  
Shyly, almost scared to believe, he ducked down, grinned slyly. "Really?"  
  
She played the coquette. "You just saved my life. Do you know how that makes me feel?"  
  
Oh, yes, definitely more. Flashes of impulses long denied came to him. He'd known this girl before. There were things he'd wanted to do with her, things he'd suspected she'd wanted too, but they'd both been held back by fear. Fear of morality, fear of hurting others, fear of hurting each other. But fear had no meaning for him now, nor, he surmised, for her. He stepped in closer; she didn't move. "Ah," smiling a Cheshire grin, he prompted, "Why don't you tell me?"  
  
She reached out, grabbed his wrist, pulled him even closer. With a wicked grin of her own, she took his hand and placed it on her left breast. "You feel that?"  
  
He stroked the silky skin with the tips of his fingers, still leaving his hand where she'd placed it. "Mmmmhmmmm."  
  
"My heart rate's elevated, my skin's flushed, my breathing is shallow and rapid." She detailed her physical status with a seductive rationality that confirmed her complete lack of it.  
  
"I don't know. Sounds like good old-fashioned fear to me." Experimentally, he dropped his fingertips, rubbed them across her nipple. She leaned in, desperately close. His breathing deepened as he caught her scent again, heady and sweet.  
  
"Oh, well, yes, true. My adrenal gland is pumping overtime," she stated in the most un-clinical of voices. He cupped his whole hand around her breast; she arched into it. "That's not the only gland giving off heavy secretions."  
  
Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. So close, so good, so right. No running. No fear. His blood pounded in his ears but for once it wasn't murder infusing his veins. Oh, yes, he'd let her live. A throaty laugh escaped him. "I love it when you talk doctor," he said.  
  
And then he was through talking. Her arm was around his neck and they were kissing, bruising their lips as each sought to be the first to taste the other. Both 50 feet in the air. Both mad. And both deliciously, achingly hungry.  
  
He grabbed the back of her head in one hand and kissed her even harder. With the other hand, he grabbed her ass, the tips of his long fingers tracing the outline of her lower lips as her upper ones opened in a moan to admit his tongue. He could feel passion taking possession of his body, driving him to take possession of hers.  
  
With a groan he pulled away from her mouth. She reached up, pouting, to pull his mouth back down, but he shook her arms away. He needed to find a place and mad though he was, he knew it wasn't going to be up on the narrow walkway. She sucked at the hollow of his neck, distracting him with a rush of sensation. "Down," he gasped out. She looked up at him for a moment, then agreed, nodding her head, "Down."  
  
They separated and on shaky legs made their way down the stairs, her preceding him so he could keep her in sight. He felt the loss of her mouth and body viscerally. Every few steps he tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her back for another open-mouthed kiss.  
  
They reached the ground and she turned, greedily grabbing for his body. He crushed her to him again and they pawed at each other with ravenous hands. Giddy with carnal contact, they laughed and giggled their way to a pile of canvas tarps. He felt her small hand run up his thigh and grasp at his rigid member through his pants. Oh, yes. "Down," he said again. "Down," she echoed, falling backwards, pulling him with her.  
  
He landed on top of her, hips bumping, then sliding together in primal sensation. He bent his head down and bit the side of her neck. She growled and tugged his jacket off his shoulders, forcing him to release her momentarily so he could free his arms. He tossed it aside and plunged back for her mouth. But, oh god, his T-shirt was up and she was pressing her soft, full lips to his chest, tongue flicking in and out as she alternately teased one nipple then the other.  
  
Blind with desire he sent the T-shirt soaring off and rolled them both over. She shrieked in surprise as she landed on top of him and he chuckled to see her delight in his playfulness. She smiled archly, reached out and pulled one of the tarps over them. Leaning down, she put her mouth to his ear and whispered, "Wouldn't want to get caught, now would we?" He turned his own mouth to her ear, ran his tongue down its outer edge, and breathed, "No, no, that would be bad."  
  
But this, this was good. Good to be doing all the things he'd only thought about, to taste, to touch, to be touched with abandon. He reveled in the pure physicality of it, the lust without fear. The unlooked for joy bubbled over, up out of him, without warning. "Wooohooohooo. Come on, come get it," he encouraged the girl, his newfound partner in madness and bliss.  
  
Impulsively, he let the Quicksilver flow over both of them. He laughed at her startled gasp as she slid into his monochromatic world. She moaned as he moved his hands over her fabric-covered breasts. He ached to see them, to view in this freakish, glowing vision the lushness he'd only felt before, but his feverish fingers couldn't catch the buttons. So he satisfied himself with pulling her shirt down and baring her lovely shoulders. He skidded his lips along this fresh expanse of creamy flesh, her giggles at his ticklish touch an echo of his own ecstasy. He let the Quicksilver fall away, leaving them both tingling, as he enthusiastically slapped her ass.  
  
So caught up in their exuberance with each other were they, that it took a moment for the light to register. Someone had invaded their cocoon and now there was a third set of hands trying to come between him and the girl.  
  
Another voice, another girl. "Aw, don't they make a cute couple." Ah, yes, she knew; she could see the rightness of it.  
  
Yet the invasive hands continued to pull at the girl. Instinctively, he swatted the intruder's hands away, but as he looked up, he recognized the face. This was a friend. Surely this friend wouldn't seek to separate him from his happiness. But the friend was yelling angrily at him. Clearly the friend didn't understand; he had to explain, to reassure the friend there was no evil in this, only joy.  
  
"C'mon, Hobbsey. Birds do it; bees do it ..." The friend still tugged at the girl, but she understood, kept her grip on him. It was as if they were of one body already, one mind.  
  
"Even scien-teests do it," she sang to the friend. He reveled at the joy evident in her voice. Yes, they were one in spirit; even the friend wouldn't be able to deny it.  
  
He laughed happily, calling to the girl, "C'mere." He pulled her back and she came willingly. He lost himself in her mouth and together they began to tumble over again.  
  
The friend yelled louder and pulled harder at the girl, finally wresting her from his grasp. The loss of the girl, the interruption of his bliss, piqued him. He crawled over to where the friend stood between him and the girl.  
  
"Hey, hey." The friend didn't turn. "Hey, hey," he repeated. Still the friend didn't turn, so he grabbed at the friend's shoulder to get his attention. "Back off, monkey boy," he shouted, warning the friend and marking his territory.  
  
But the friend didn't back off. He watched as the friend raised a fist. He tensed, prepared to fight for the girl if he had to. The punch never came though. Instead he felt a needle slide into his neck. The other girl; she hadn't understood. He fell back into the darkness, the cold sting of the Counteragent -- and sanity - usurping his joy.  
  
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End file.
